


I Say it's up to Fate (It's Woven in My Soul)

by Sometimesyoufly (faile02)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Frottage, Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faile02/pseuds/Sometimesyoufly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They find him in the middle of a frozen desert. It was easier than Natasha expected, trailing the scent of blood and death, red staining the white snow. They find him on his knees, head bowed, eyes closed. There's no gun to be seen. No words are spoken, but there's a sort of recognition in his eyes, a spark of hope in Natasha's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Say it's up to Fate (It's Woven in My Soul)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [widow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/widow/gifts).



> This is birthday gift to my one true love, Shannon. I have written your favorite pairing for your birthday, with a hint of OT3. Maybe one day I'll write that part, too.
> 
> Happy 19th Birthday, baby girl... I'm exactly 10 years older than you for the next 3 months!
> 
> (And wow, that makes this smut writing creepy, suddenly.)

They find him in the middle of a frozen desert. It was easier than Natasha expected, trailing the scent of blood and death, red staining the white snow. They find him on his knees, head bowed, eyes closed. There's no gun to be seen. No words are spoken, but there's a sort of recognition in his eyes, a spark of hope in Natasha's. 

He comes easily. 

SHIELD is lacking in proper containment, but he doesn't fight. Natasha suspects there's no fight left, if the bruises and the broken bones are any indication. She wonders if his mind is slipping free or just merely slipping. They drug him, secure him to a bed, leave him alone with nothing but the sound of the IV pumping fluid and a pencil against a sketchbook. 

_Drip. Drip._

_Skritch. Skritch._

I know you. The words are stuck in his throat, eyes on the square jaw and blonde hair sprawled out on a chair too small for the large frame. The metal buckles. Fingers twitch and a different kind of metal flexes at knuckles that aren't really there. He tries to remember, knows that somewhere deep down there's a memory of a skinny kid, of coughing and bruises and arms he could snap like twigs. 

_There was a TV on his last mission. A grainy picture showing monsters from the sky; a battle raging across New York City. Red, white, and blue streaking across the screen. It's enough to set him off, rattling loose a wire that had been frayed apart too many times._

The giant wakes, sits up to look him in the eye and a name sparks his memory. _Steve._ There's a light in blue eyes and maybe he said the word out loud. He even thinks he said it in English. 

***

She gives him a name, the pretty red head with soft curves. _James,_ she says, lips curling up in a familiar way. He thinks he remembers her, recalls pale flesh under his hands, quiet sighs in his ears. It's hard to tell what's real, even in the wide open spaces of Steve's apartment. 

They let him sleep in a bed, give him coffee when he asks. Sometimes Steve tells him stories, small things that flitter against a wall he thinks is him. He calls him Bucky and James knows it's a nickname, knows that it's a part of him he can just barely find. He reaches for him, on nights where his dreams are a reality. 

One night - _multiple nights_ \- there are thrown punches and bloody noses and nothing Steve can do until James is worn out and can be pulled onto Steve's couch, his head cradled in a lap, strong fingers combing through hair. Steve remembers Bucky doing the same for him, remembers it so vividly, he wishes he could push it into Bucky's broken mind. Those nights, Natasha visits from her own quarters, sits on the floor and sings softly, sometimes in Russian, sometimes in French. It's enough to calm him. 

_(Somewhere in the Tower, a lonely archer practices with a bow. If he sometimes imagines the target is the face of a battered former war hero, well, that's an image Clint keeps locked up tight.)_

***

They wheel a man in, bald and comforting. At first, James thinks he's a therapist, come to make him talk about his problems. He wonders if a psychic is worse. Permission is given and he can feel the cool fingers of a mind brushing against his. 

The landscape changes and he's not in the warm living room of Steve Rogers. It's cold and rocky and he's looking at Xavier with surprise. "This is your mind, James." The tone is even, just tinted with a touch of British accent that seems to put him at ease. He wonders if Xavier is doing it on purpose, but even if, James can't really bring himself to mind. If he could, he'd calm himself down too. 

"Let's walk," Xavier tells him, leading him through a barren scape. They come to a door, and Xavier knocks. A child lets them in, and the world shifts under James' feet. "Your childhood," the only explanation given, enough to make him understand. There are memories, a slow trickle that fill him, images of orphans and the streets of Brooklyn and Steve. Steve is everywhere and it's an anchor, holding James in place, keeping him from falling into the deep end. 

There's another shift, and wall appears, light bleeding through cracks and Xavier stops, and the cracks fade and light ebbs and suddenly it doesn't feel so overwhelming anymore. 

A flash of red and there's a woman. Natasha, his mind supplies and Xavier smiles at the image, before he frowns at something ahead. "What comes next will be painful," he warns, but James was never one to be afraid of pain. They step into a world of snow and blood and Russian nightmares. There's a rush of emotions but Xavier doesn't stop them. Instead, he waits. Waits for the girl with a dancers grace and skin stained with the blood of her missions to reach out and heal him, memories flitting together stronger on their own, than anything Xavier could do for him. 

These memories hurt. James expected them to. 

It feels like minutes that they're gone, but when James opens his eyes, the last of the sun is fading and there are tears drying on his cheeks. Steve puts him to bed, Natasha curling against his side, fingers drawing comforting patterns on his chest, lulling him to sleep.  
He thinks he can hear Xavier speaking to Steve and to Coulson, hears the words but can't make much sense of it, not with the press of Natasha's body, the smell of her hair in his nose. All he knows for sure - he's not better, not by a long shot, but the violent flashbacks should be gone. 

Bucky hopes they're right. James thinks nothing will stop the violence.

***

He heals. Slowly, his mind puts the pieces back together and he remembers things that he never should have forgot. James mourns for the loss of his teammates and friends, memories of a city long turned to dust. He went back, once. Only ever once, to the block his apartment was on, the corner that he stopped the bullies picking on Stevie. 

It wasn't pretty. Apparently there are some things even the world's premier telepath can't stop.

***

They let him spar. Sitting still for too long makes him antsy. Instead, he takes out his frustrations on a punching bag, on Steve, on Natasha. She's the easiest to spar with. Sometimes, James forgets that she knows him, knows all the moves that he doesn't remember learning, knows how his body will move even before he knows himself. It's perfect, the way she always knocks him the floor.

Natasha is the one that convinces SHIELD it's better to let him have a gun. He knows they watch him, only let him use it under extreme supervision. James can feel the glare of Barton from all the way across the room. There's always a bow in his hands, and somewhere there's a lingering memory of a mark missed, of somebody taking his kill. 

He knows it was Barton. Barton knows it too, if the smirk is any indication. 

James has something that Barton wants though. Every time Natasha leaves the archer to meet the gunman, he marks off a small victory. Small things, like being near her on the couch, his head in her lap, or her feet in his. Nothing steadies him like she does. James imagines that Bucky can feel the lack. 

He knows that burn. The feeling in your gut, watching another man with the woman you want. James can see it lurking behind blue eyes, something that looks like jealousy and anger and lust. 

***

The gym is nearly empty, when James enters. Only Barton, alone on the weight machines, eyeing him as he moves. There's a hickey on his neck, a spot that matches the one on Natasha's. James made sure Barton saw her leave his room that morning. He pulls off his shirt, drops to the floor for pushups, smirking into the matt when he feels Barton's eyes on him.

The weights clank. Feet pad over. 

"Want to spar?" Barton's voice is rough. James hopes he had something to do with that. 

He stops, stands, looks Barton over. "Sure."

There's little heat to the fight. At least, not anger heat. It doesn't take long before James has a split lip and Barton has what will be a glorious bruise along his jaw. Even less time than expected before James has Barton on the ground under him, pinned to the matt. 

James has one chance, one attempt to get it right, or Barton will have a chance to beat the full out crap out of him. He takes it. 

Leaning down, James kissing Barton hard, at the same time rocking his dick against the one below him. Barton stills, and for a second, James is convinced he's going back to his rooms a bloody mess, before Barton's hands reach up and pull James closer, licking up into his mouth, his leg coming around to interlock their bodies together. 

James groans, shifts his hips, feels a shock of pleasure all the way through his toes. From the way Barton moves under him, he assumes he feels the same. He grins against Barton's mouth, moves down to suck at his neck, giving him a matching hickey. 

"Fuck, Barnes," Barton groans, hand dipping down to cup his ass, grinding up against the body above him. "That mouth is dangerous."

"You have no idea, Barton." James bites down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to hurt. Licking the skin around the mark, he moves to the other side, drawing out another moan from Barton's mouth. He rocks his hips against him, can feel the hardness of cock against cock. The fabric of his gym shorts is too much, and James pulls away, slipping a hand between them to pull out Barton's dick, enjoying the hiss of pleasure before freeing his own. 

Now, the skin against skin is soft, almost velvet. James moves slightly, closer still, cock pressed against cock. He thrusts slightly, rubbing ridges against each other. It's exactly what he was looking for. Barton hikes up a leg, giving James permission and ease of movement. The two thrust and rut against each other, drawing out gasps of air, groans of pleasure. It's not long before their spilling themselves on James' stomach, staining the shirt Barton still wears. 

James flops over, draws in air as his heart rate comes back down. "Damn. That was better than I thought it'd be."

From his spot next to him, Clint raises an eyebrow, "You planned this?"  
"Fuck yeah. Tasha's going to be pissed I started without her."

A smirk spread across Clint's lips. "Fuck that, let's go find her, and finish it."


End file.
